The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 352, January 17, 1829

In the island, the guide importunes Mr. Croker to visit the shelf of a rock overshadowed by yew, and called the Bed of Honour, "because 'twas there a lord-lieutenant of Ireland would go to sleep to cool himself after drinking plenty of whiskey punch." He is cautioned against venturing too near the ledge of a rock, "the very spot the poor author gentleman fell from; they called him Hell—Hell—no, 'twasn't Hell, either, but Hal; oh, then, what a head I have upon me—oh, I have it now—Hallam's the name, your honour."

"What the author of the Middle Ages?"

"True for you, sir, he was a middle aged man;" "and then there was another great writing gentleman, one Sir Walter Scott," &c.

Mr. Croker chances to be confined to his hotel by the rainy weather, and this circumstance introduces the following legend, narrated by one of his old friends:—

"Well, well," said Lynch, smiling, "I'll give you the legend of Saint Swithin exactly as it was told to me about a month since—I have occasionally employed an industrious, poor man, named Tom Doody, to work in my garden. 'Well, Tom,' said I to him, 'this is Swithin's day, and not a drop of rain—you see the old saying of "forty days' rain" goes for nothing.'—'O, but the day isn't over yet,' said Tom, 'so you'd better not halloo, sir, till you're out of the wood. I'll go bail we'll have rain some time of the day, and then you may be sure of it for the forty days.'—'If that's the way, Tom,' said I, 'this same Swithin must have been the thirstiest saint in the calendar; and it's quite certain he must be a real Irish saint, since he's so fond of the drop.'—'You may laugh if you please,' said Tom, resting on his spade, 'you may laugh if you please, but it's a bad thing any how to spake that way of the saints; and, sure, Saint Swithin was a blessed priest, and the rain was a miracle sent on his account; but may be you never heard how it came to pass.'—'No, Tom, I did not,' said I—'Well, then, I'll tell you,' said he, 'how it was. Saint Swithin was a priest, and a very holy man, so holy that he went by no other name but that of the blessed priest. He wasn't like the priests now-a-days, who ride about on fine horses, with spectacles stuck upon their noses, and horsewhips in their hands, and polished boots on their legs, that fit them as nate as a Limerick glove (God forgive me for spaking ill of the clargy, but some of them have no more conscience than a pig in a pratie garden;') I give you Doody's own words," said Mr. Lynch.

"That's exactly what I wish."

"And he continued—'Saint Swithin was not that kind of priest, no such thing; for he did nothing but pray from morning to night, so that he brought a blessing on the whole country round; and could cure all sorts of diseases, and was so charitable that he'd give away the shirt off his back. Then, whenever he went out, it was quite plain and sober, on a rough little mountainy garran; and he thought himself grand entirely if his big ould fashioned boots got a rub of the grase. It was no wonder he should be called the blessed priest, and that the people far and near should flock to him to mass and confession; or that they thought it a blessed thing to have him lay his hands on their heads. It's a pity the likes of him should ever die, but there's no help for death; and sure if he wasn't so good entirely he'd have been left, and not be taken away as he was; for 'tis them that are most wanting the first to go. The news of his death flew about like lightning; and there was nothing but ullagoning through all the country, and they had no less than right, for they lost a good friend the day he died. However, from ullagoning, they soon came to fighting about where he was to be buried. His own parish wouldn't part with him if they got half Ireland, and sure they had the best right to him; but the next parish wanted to get him by the lauve laider (strong hand,) for they thought it would bring a blessing on them to have his bones among them; so his own parishioners at last took and buried him by night, without the others knowing any thing about it. When the others heard it they were tearing mad, and raised a large faction, thinking to take him up and carry him away in spite of his parishioners; so they had a great battle upon it; but those who had the best right to him were beat out and out, and the others were just going to take him up, when there came all at once such rain as was never seen before or since; it was so heavy that they were obliged to run away half drownded, and give it up as a bad job. They thought, however, that it wouldn't last long, and that they could come again; but they were out in that, for it never stopped raining in that manner for forty days, so they were obliged to give it up entirely; and ever since that time there's always more or less rain on Saint Swithin's day, and for forty days after.'

"Just as Tom Doody had finished his story there came a tremendous shower. 'There now, why,' said Tom, with a look of triumph, as we ran for shelter, 'there now, why, isn't it a true bill? well, I knew Saint Swithin wouldn't fail us.' And I, as the very elements seemed to be in his favour, was obliged to leave him the victory."

We pass over Mr. Croker's account of Mucruss Abbey and all its legendary lore, to "Tim Marcks's adventures with a walking skull," at Aghadoe.

"A fine extensive prospect this," said I to General Picket, so was my guide called.

"That's the good truth for your honour," he replied, "only it's a mighty lonesome place, and they say it's haunted by spirits, though Tim Marcks says there's no such thing. May be your honour wouldn't know Thicus Morckus; he's a long stocah of a fellow, with a big nose, wears knee breeches, corderoy leggings, and takes a power of snuff. And, if your honour would like to see him, he lives at Corrigmalvin, at the top of High Street, in the town of Killarney. To be sure, some people say, all that comes from Tim isn't gospel, but that's neither here nor there; so, as I was saying, 'I don't believe in spirits,' says he to me, of a day he was mending the road here, and I along with him—'The dickins you don't,' says I, 'and what's your rason for that same?'—'I'll tell you that,' says he; 'it was a could frosty night in the month of December, the doors were shut, and we were all sitting by the side of a blazing turf fire. My father was smoking his doodeen in the chimney corner, my mother was overseeing the girls that were tonging the flax, and I and the other gossoons were doing nothing at all, only roasting praties in the ashes. "Was the colt brought in?" says my father. "Wisha, fakes then! I believes not," says I. "Why, then, Tim," says he, "you must run and drive him in directly, for it's a mortal could night." "And where is he, father?" says I. "In the far field, at the other side of the ould church," says he. "Murder!" says I, for I didn't like the thoughts of going near the ould church at all, at all. But there was no use in saying agen it, for my father (God be merciful to him!) had us under as much command as a regiment of soldiers. So away I went, with a light foot and a heavy heart. Well, I soon came to the bounds' ditch between the farm and the berrin ground of the ould church. Then I slackened my pace a little, and kept looking hither and over, for fear of being taken by surprise. The moon was shining clear as day, so that I could see the gray tombstones and the white skulls; when, all at once, I thought one of them began to move. I could hardly believe my two eyes; but, fakes, it was true enough; for presently it came walking down the hill, quite leisurely at first, then a little faster, till at last it came rolling at the rate of a fox hunt. "Twill be stopped at the bounds' ditch," thinks I; but I was never more out in my reckoning, for it bowled fair through the gap, and made directly up to me. "By the mortal frost," says I, "I'm done for;" and away I scampered as fast as my legs could carry me; but the skull came faster after me, for I could hear every lump it gave against the stones. It's a long stretch of a hill from the berrin ground down to the road; but you'd think I wasn't longer getting down than whilst you'd be saying "Jack Robinson." Sure enough I did make great haste; but if I did, "the more haste the worse speed," they say, and so by me any how, for I went souse up to my neck in a dirty Lochaune by the side of the road. Well, when I recovered a little, what would I see but the skull at the edge of the Lochaune, stuck fast in a furze bush, and grinning down at me. "Oh, you're there," says I; "I'll have one rap at you any how, for worse than die I can't;" so I up with a lump of a blackthorn, I had in my fist, and gives it a rap, when what should it be after all, but a huge rat, which had got into the skull, and, trying to get out again, it made it to roll down the hill in that frightful way. To be sure,' said Tim, 'to be sure it was mighty frightful, but it wasn't a ghost after all; and, indeed, (barring that) I never saw any thing worse than myself, though we lived for a long time near the ould church of Aghadoe.'"

This is all we can spare room for at present. The second volume is untouched, and will afford us a few extractable pieces—but they must be short. We have heard of all stages of laughter—as being convulsed—ready to burst—splitting sides—and if our readers promise not to die, in due order, with laughter—we may probably recur to Mr. Croker's very tickling volumes.